


An Infestation of Porgs

by lackadaisical



Category: Star Wars Episode VIII: The Last Jedi, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-19
Updated: 2017-12-19
Packaged: 2019-02-17 05:47:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13070397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lackadaisical/pseuds/lackadaisical
Summary: The Resistance members notice the abundance of porgs on the Millennium Falcon.They're sort of cute (in an annoying way).





	An Infestation of Porgs

Finn noticed them first.

Arms laden with rations and grousing under his breath about the restorative qualities of freeze-dried dewback jerky—or lack thereof—he stuttered to a stop, staring at a prone Rose. Only, he ignored how small and fragile she looked under a pile of musty down quilts or how she hadn’t stirred in hours, eyes fixed and mouth muttering, “What the _fuck_ is that?”

A few Resistance members, milling around in the central lounge of the _Falcon_ , turned their faces to him, eyebrows quirked. It really was a testament to how bored they all were that a few even came to stand at Finn’s shoulders to get a better look. Nestled into the crook of Rose’s elbow, peering over her torso at Finn and the rest of the Resistance with large, spherical— _creepy,_ Finn mentally amended—eyes, was a tiny feathered… _thing_.

“Do you think it snuck on on Crait?” someone asked, Finn wasn’t sure who, too transfixed with the creature. He wondered what percentage of its body was dominate by its luminous eyes. It had to be over fifty-percent. 

 _How is that anatomically possible?_ Finn found himself wondering, which didn’t seem exactly relevant at the moment.

“One of those crystal critters got on; that thing could have, too,” another person offered. As if in agreement from its place sitting atop BB-8’s swiveling head, the crystal critter yowled.

Yet another person muttered, “We’ve got to come up with a better name than ‘crystal critter.’”

“I like the alliteration,” came a muttered reply.

Finn ignored them, dumping his armload of freeze-dried jerky onto the lounge’s table—strange to think he, Rey, and Han gathered around that holo-table a little over two week ago—and cautiously approached the unblinking, tiny thing. It didn’t look like it would bite his hand off or harm Rose, but the universe was a large and strange place, and Finn wouldn’t risk it.

The creature watched Finn approach unflinchingly, chirruping when he extended a hand and, later, Finn would deny that he jumped and barely smothered a shriek.

(Though, it would become a favorite story to reenact among the Resistance members, each retelling becoming more dramatic, much to Finn’s chagrin).

Gulping down a breath, and reminding himself that he nearly committed suicide just yesterday in the name of freedom— _he could face down an anatomically impossible bird-thing, damnit!_ —Finn closed the distance between him and Rose’s cubby-bed, staring down at the creature. It chirruped again, when Finn stood over him, and flapped its stubby wings. 

“It’s kind of cute?” Finn said, before it cooed and he amended dryly, “In an annoying way.”

“Can we eat it?” someone asked; Finn decided he instantly liked whoever it was.

The creature burrowed itself against Rose then, and Finn could only call the odd, raspy-noise it made a purr. “Okay, you little weirdo,” Finn said, going to scoop the creature up and— _probably_ —pitch it out of the _Falcon_ and into deep space. Who knew what kind of destruction an unknown creature could do to a ship—maybe it would gnaw on wires or destroy a circuit or eat all the rations; maybe Rose was allergic?

Cradling the thing in his hands, Finn cringed as it snuggled into his brown jacket. That certainly didn’t help his resolve to chuck it into space.

He stilled.

Eyes tearing away from the thing, Finn stared down in wide-eyed surprise at Rose. She had moved agitatedly, she had muttered restlessly, and though she had stilled again, he was _sure_ of it: her body now curled towards the residual warmth left by the thing. Finn blinked hard once, twice, then looked back at the creature in his hands. It whistled at him.

“Well,” Finn sighed, returning the creature to its makeshift nest on Rose’s bed, “You’re a lucky bastard, you know that?”

Sighing, he turned away from Rose to retrieve the rations and immediately faced a barrage of teasing insults and jabs from his fellow Resistance members, who had watched the whole exchange play out—again, a testament to their boredom. Finn protested mightily, deflecting insults with a grin, and insisting they could eat the weird little creature later.

 _Only_ , he thought, thinking of the way a ghost of a smile flicked across Rose’s face when the bird-thing snuggled back into her side, _we’ll have to wait until Rose doesn’t need it anymore._

_#_

 

Considering Poe was off, helping Chewie pilot, it could be reasonably claimed he noticed them second.

In hyperspace, not much attention was required besides occasionally nudging the _Falcon_ back into the center of the hyperspace lane, so Poe swiveled in his chair and listened to General Organa and Chewie reminisce. In the General’s hands rolled two gold mirror dice. Poe stole speculative glances at them, eyes darting up to the General’s vaguely wistful frown. 

“You know, most of my memories on the _Falcon_ are from the backseat,” the General observed, voice teasing but mouth still decidedly downward. “You and Han would never let me pilot.”

Chewie grumbled back: _He barely let_ me _pilot._

General Organa smiled and Poe grinned just looking at her.

Though he was a Resistance hero—he winced at the word, not sure he deserved the title after the last few days—and master starpilot, he felt like a little boy, desperate to please his mother, when he was around the General. His pride had once chafed because of it, his ego conflicting volatilely with his innate and anxious need for approval, and turned him reckless. He gambled with his life—worse, his squadron’s lives—to prove something to the General, or to himself, or just to anyone willing to watch (he wasn’t sure). Most of the losses and tragedies over the past forty-eight hours were his fault.

Still, the General forgave him. She challenged him to grow, bolstering and humbling him in the same sentence, and now a sort of warm affection and a good-sort shame—a shame that made him thoughtful—glowed in his chest whenever he looked at General Organa.

A softness brushed, and then pressed, against his cheek. Purring—or something like purring—drowned out Chewie and Leia’s conversation, thunderous in Poe’s ears until his brain was filled with the noise. He stiffened. “Wha—?” he exclaimed, jerking away.

Only, the purring continued, though whatever had made it sunk tiny, dagger-claws through his flight suit and into his shoulder. Apparently, the thing was determined to stay attached.

“What the hell is this?” Poe asked, reaching up and wrapping his fingers around a feathery-soft, small body and tugging. Damn thing didn’t budge. Vainly he pulled, wincing as the claws only sunk deeper, but he couldn’t dislodge it. “Fucking—,” he growled, “Get—off—!”

Chewie and the General watched his struggle with wide grins, neither moving to help, and Poe glared at them. “A little help over here would be much appreciated,” he griped, still tugging but now also trying to turn his head to get a better look at the creature. It was too close to his nose to get see clearly, but he had the vague impression of silky white and gray feathers and _massive_ eyes.

 _How is that anatomically possible?_ Poe wondered.

“I don’t know, Poe, it seems to like you,” the General offered, hiding a snort behind her hand.

Poe glared harmlessly at her. 

“Well what is this ‘it’ that likes me, huh?” Poe demanded, giving up on removing the thing and letting his hands fall uselessly into his lap. The claws immediately eased from his skin, leaving a persistant aching.

Chewie offered then: _They’re Porgs, from Luke’s island. I think they sense pain or dark thoughts, and try to make it better._

“Huh,” Poe said as his shoulder gave another throb. “From their little demon-claws, I’d think they like to cause pain, too.”

Ignoring him, Leia pointed out, “The little Porg must be trying to make you feel better, Poe.”

Poe stiffened, pretending red wasn’t slowly seeping into his cheeks and grateful that neither Chewie nor the General commented on it. Meanwhile, the Porg trilled and nuzzled his cheek. He gritted his teeth, forcing himself not to move for fear of the little hellion shredding his shoulder further.

Finally, trying to maintain some dignity with the Porg beginning to groom his hair, he offered wryly, “BB-8 is going to be horribly jealous.”

“Horribly,” agreed General Organa and finally couldn’t hold back her laughter. Chewie howled in amusement, and, just this once, Poe didn’t mind being the punchline to a joke.

 

#

 

Rey noticed the Porgs last.

Emerging from the quiet nook she found for meditation—and trying to puzzle out how she could even _begin_ to save Ben Solo, defeat Kylo Ren, and take down the rest of the First Order with him—Rey froze in the entryway of the _Falcon’s_ lounge.

Her eyes jumped, not sure where to settle and what warranted the most staring: a crystal critter napping atop of a perfectly still BB-8 (the droid apparently nervous to move), a Porg sleeping on Rose’s bed (Finn hovering over her, faced carved with worry and exhaustion), or Poe nobly ignoring a crooning Porg on his shoulder and determinedly playing cards at the holo-table.

She opened her mouth. 

She closed it.

She decided to go meditate some more.


End file.
